War On Love
by RavenFollower13
Summary: This isn't the story about how they learned to accept themselves and act like dignified human beings, regardless of whether or not they were born human. This is the story about how a man—how a thing hated himself, and brought everyone down with him in a really fucked up sense of what it meant to love other people and how it meant to fight against that love. This. Was, War.
1. CH 1

**DID YOU FUDGING MISS ME MOTHER FUDGERS? BECAUSE I SURE AS FUDGED MISSED YOU!**

* * *

**_Invader Zim:_**

**"WAR ON LOVE"**

* * *

_Raise your weapons to our leaders_

_And battle cries to the sky,_

_Tonight we feast on the galaxies_

_And fight till the day we die_

* * *

This isn't the happiest story you'll ever here. To be honest it's not much of a story as it is a really messed up tragedy. And I'm not ever sure you could call what happened _romance_ . . . I mean, it was like . . . it was like sucking on a cactus drenched with cherry flavored Novocain. It alluded to fantasy in its most devious form while remaining strange, ultimately unattractive and maybe even disturbing to those who took it at face value. It was all of these things to the outsider. It was none of these things to us, the people who took it personally; those of us who were intimately involved with one another—not sexually, but mentally. We couldn't have expected to get so screwed up in one another. None of us could have predicted it was going to go this far, to the point where I—nor anyone else—could tell what was right or wrong anymore. They could no longer tell where the lines had been drawn. I couldn't tell who kicked them over, when we made new ones, who painted over the first ones in whose blood. By the end of it, their sins were mine. Everything we did was because of the other, and people died for us, with us, _under_ us.

This isn't the happiest story, taken at face value. It is every bit the flavored cactus, every bit the glorified nightmare. It wasn't what they wanted. Some days, I wonder if it was even what _he _wanted. I wonder what he wanted a lot. I wonder what he expected to get out of this, whether or not he was championing his death wish or intended to live forever as this . . . _thing_. I didn't know. I miss my old life. I miss the days where I didn't get murdered at a pub with a little girl hiding in the closet. I miss the days when a teenage boy didn't flinch anytime a firecracker went off or want to bury himself in a hole and never move again when someone started a campfire, and the smell of smoke burned his nose.

This isn't the story about how they learned to accept themselves, and act like dignified human beings, regardless of whether or not they were born humans. None of them were, anyways, so it wasn't ultimately surprising. This is the story about how a man—how a_ thing_ hated himself, and brought everyone down with him in a really fucked up sense of what it meant to love other people, how it meant to fight against that love. It is about war in its highest form, about ordinary people who were robbed of their lives and turned into soldiers almost overnight. This is about the people who tried to protect them, the people who succeeded and the people—like me—who failed. This is about understanding the son of a bitch who caused all of this, about us sons and daughters of bastards who molded us, changed us into an adaptable creature that refused to go down without kicking and screaming and a trail of bodies to mark our path. It was bullshit, but it _is_ truth. As much of it as I can give without ripping souls in half. To understand, to truly comprehend, you have to be open to listen to me. To really listen, maybe even relate on baser levels.

This is the _war_ on love, not the happy-sappy-poem glorifying it. It's the darker side of love, what it drives people to do before it's even consciously formed. It's unbelievable. It's frankly terrifying how easily it happened, how circumstances begged and jumped and went through fantastic hoops to _allow it_ to happen.

This is the war on love.

And it is_ not_ a very happy story.

* * *

_**The Cornfield**_

Joel Macklemore considered himself a simple sort of fellow.

Born and raised on the Macklemore farm, he'd grown into a good sort of man. As a good a man as one could be expected to be in this sort of nefarious world. It seemed like every day brought with it a new battle, created a divide between what it meant to be a man and what it took to be successful. But his father had raised him on stern expressions and hard work, and his mother had been generous with her paddle, and he was no worse for it. He'd wrangled up a good sort of woman out of the _many_ fine figures of women his small town had to offer. His wife's-then-girlfriend's-face put many other southern bells to shame, and with her firecracker personality and his frank moral compass, they'd made a handsome couple. They still were quite the pair, and he loved her all the more for making him a better sort of man than he could've become on his own. He owed his wife a lot, and even after all that, the generous little vixen had the nerve to gift him with a baby girl, whose smile outshone the sun and whose laughter rang like freshly polished church bells. Joel Macklemore had garnered quite the life for himself.

So it was with a start that he bolted upright from bed, to the howl of a beast that_ definitely_ was not the bay of one of his dogs, and to the strangely un-terrified shouts of children—one boy and one girl, by the sound of it, although it could've been two boys, depending on whether or not they were both past puberty—in his corn maze. It was with bleary eyes and a foggy brain that he trickled out of the sheets, scrounging about for his gun and wondering what in Sam's Hell was going on in his farm.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck, **fuck!**_

A howl tore a significant rift in the already tense, absolutely _freezing_ air. Dib wished he'd thought to pack gloves. Dib wished a lot of things at the moment, most of them centered around gaining the ability to teleport himself and his plus one anywhere but here. These wishes only got louder as he continued to trample hay and occasionally corn-stalks, a pair of feet pounding right after him, mocking his stupidity with every thud. Fuck, fuck—_why had he thought this would be a good idea?_

_Not good, not _good_! _There was nothing good about this situation at all, but there was a lot of adrenaline rattling his brain and anything besides the instinct to keep one hand on his 'gun' and the other on his plus one was getting pushed to the background for the time being. But there was a lot of 'I am an idiot!' and 'Why didn't I bring a bigger gun?' escaping to his primary thoughts. This was just supposed to be a recon mission, but he'd heard the snuffling and he'd stolen a map from the gallery and he thought he could trust his sense of direction. Evidently, he'd been proven wrong.

And his plus one was only too happy to remind him.

The reminders were well deserved, and this most recent one followed directly after he skidded to a halt in yet another dead-end, marked by a fairly wide circle and a sign stuck in the ground. The fairly bolded_ "Whoops!"_ preceding a paragraph that was offering some asinine hint that they did not have time to read and muddle through, and ultimately did not help in the slightest. And even if they did have time, their aching, chilled limbs did not mingle well with the burn of adrenaline, and they couldn't have brought themselves to sit still long enough to read anything if they tried.

"Shut your stupid mouth!" His plus one hissed, tugging on his sleeve. It was all the warning he needed—and all the warning he received—before she was gone again, tearing back the way they'd come as another snarl rose with the wind. It was getting closer but also farther. They were not the only one the maze was disorienting.

"Sorry, sorry!" he called out. There was no point in being quiet anymore. The monster had proved itself a superior hunter, with a miraculous ability to sniff them out and hear their feet trampling the corn and other such 'farm' things that littered the dirt path.

"Oh shut up!" His companion snapped back, holstering a weapon Dib had been forced to relinquish three minutes into the chase. Occasionally when the snuffling or howling got too close, near enough to make his skin crawl and imagine a heavy, odorous breath huffing down his neck, the weapon would get drawn until it wasn't worth carrying it anymore and re-holstered into a belt loop. Both of them had been continuously, silently thanking their own preferences for jeans and dark clothing that blended well in the night, with belt loops. It was far better to be in something comfortable that you could move in, as opposed to something that only _looked_ stealthy and in reality limited a fair amount of movement.

The map was snatched from his hand, finally, and he almost breathed a sigh of relief. Neither dared to turn the flashlight on, the other lifting the map to the moonlight and holding it taught to smooth out the wrinkles that he'd caused by holding onto it for dear life in his fist.

"God _damn it,_ Dib." They spat, when the attempt to figure out even their general whereabouts proved futile. "The next time you get the bright idea to drag me along on one of your little adventures, _don't_. Bloaty's wasn't even worth it! It's probably closed by now, you asshole!"

"Hey!" He snapped as they hurried on again, having wasted precious time standing around examining the crumpled map. "It's not like I knew this would happen!"

"Oh, fuck what you know!"

Any other person would have been appalled to hear that kind of language spewed from such a frankly delicate-looking child. And it was true.

At twelve, borderline teenage Gaz had the potential to be absolutely adorable and disarming. If she didn't always look so sour and didn't purposefully avoid any color whatsoever In her wardrobe, she could pass for maybe even nine, if she wore a heavy jacket to disguise her figure. His little sister was approaching puberty, and while she still didn't have much more curve then he did, there was something decidedly feminine about his sister's shape. And he didn't like it. His little sister would not be sexualized by anyone, and anyone who disagreed was going to meet his left hook and a very painful end. Her pretty features were always—thankfully—pinched into an unattractive sharp sort of indifference, if not just a full-blown scowl. It was a huge burden off of Dib's shoulder that she continued to show no interest in acting her gender, or even her age. Then again there was really no age that represented the complete maturity and disregard for any authority she deemed stupid.

Said little sister let out a snarl of her own that frankly scared him almost as much as the werewolf's as they came to a crossroads. She was peering at the map again when another howl, obviously more excited, rippled through the corn-maze.

"Whatever!" She barked, tossing the map over her shoulder and barreling into the corn. The stalks shuddered as she moved and she thanked her good sense to keep her hair short, reinforcing her beliefs that long hair was not worth the trouble. Stringy stalks slipped harmlessly away from her short a-cut, poking her face and her ankles. She was probably getting prickers in her shoes, but prickers were better than getting ripped to shreds by one of Dib's little play-things.

"Gaz!" She heard him shout in surprise. Apparently it hadn't occurred to him she would break the rules like that. But soon enough she could hear him shoving after her, both of them maneuvering as quickly as they were able. Gaz reasoned smartly that no matter where they were, if they went in a straight line, they would eventually get out of the hell-hole that was this maze, be able to find the road, and get as far from this whole mess as currently possible. Gaz also made a mental-note to flip Dib off anytime he suggested any more 'midnight-bike-trips' to the middle of nowhere. Bloaty's had made the ordeal initially promising. This whole parody of some already crappy horror movie made even her favorite pizza not a good enough temptation.

The howl was getting louder, more frantic, and Gaz gagged on some piece of the corn-stalk that had fallen into her hair and caught on her lip. Dib had stopped following, picking up speed to get in front of her and barrel things aside quicker. Dib was two years older and had hit puberty, after all. While his waist was just as slight as hers, he was considerably taller and was actually gaining muscle definition. If this psychotic excuse for an investigation was what frequented his Saturday nights, then it was no wonder why. Gaz wasn't exactly a couch-potato (not for the last seven months, anyway; Dib had been inspired by a health kick that had bled into her lifestyle as well), but even her thighs were starting to burn after all this running. Her breathing was annoyingly loud and at a higher pitch than she would have liked it. Gaz was only just now beginning to accept no matter what she did, she was a girl and had been built to look like some sort of prissy ballerina. She hoped puberty brought only the monthly feminine gift with it, and not anything curvaceous. But if her already narrowing waist and sudden necessity to wear training bras were any indication of her future, she was in for an unfortunate surprise.

Realizing now was not the time to morn her future feminine woes, Gaz pressed on and felt her chest shudder without her permission as a piercing howl made her ears ring. While she felt no conscious fear, she was aware on some level she might be afraid. But unlike Dib, Gaz wasn't afraid at the moment. Her adrenaline came from pure, unadulterated rage at both the creature pursuing them and her brother for being a ditz and dragging him out here. There had to be some way he could get in trouble for doing this to her. She could sue him for reckless endangerment or something. But wasn't that only for parents and/or guardians?

"Almost there!" Dib choked out, bringing Gaz back to the reality that had tortured thigh-muscles and frozen lungs.

Gaz was very much aware that the thing following them was getting closer. But at this speed she didn't dare risk drawing her weapon, for fear of this fucking corn knocking her hand against the trigger or some other unfortunate accident. The safety was very much off, but if she set the maze on fire, she could die too. And Dib, probably. It was just an all-around bad idea, and so Gaz kept her hands balled up and pumping along her sides as she ran, shoving aside corn and any stray barrier-ties. The neon pink ribbon was meant to deter people from pushing along the corn as they were. There were probably ruining the maze, but that was just too damn bad, because Gaz was not in the mood for death today and apparently neither was Dib.

Very bad.

Very bad _indeed_.

Gaz saw the end of the corn husks and what awaited them on the other side. It was saw some rickety little farm done up to look nice. Probably the house of the owner, and she thought she saw someone standing on the porch. By the look on Dib's face when he took a moment to look back at her, he saw them too.

_Great_, he thought, plowing ahead and maneuvering himself in front of his sister. _If we don't get eaten, we get shot. Or arrested._

They _had _been making a lot of noise, he realized. But it was too late to do anything about it, so screw it, he was not about to let his sister get eaten by a Grade-0 werewolf. Dib hadn't been expecting much more than a Grade-5, a Grade-3 if he was really lucky. Grade-5 was just some really hairy crazy guy running around (hopefully clothed) and howling rather impressively. A Grade-3 was some sort of genetically mutated dog. Dib had heard stories about both, and had kept his fingers crossed and his gun loaded, just in case hobo or dog got a little too rabid. He had _not_ been prepared for a full-blown Grade-0 werewolf. And just his luck it was a full moon tonight. Well, he'd_ planned _to go on a full moon, but that was—.

The roar that rang out ricocheted off his eardrums, and Gaz was next to him, tugging his jacket and stealing glances over his shoulder. To anyone else she would've appeared indifferent, if slightly winded. To him, Gaz looked more startled than ever. It was no longer his imagination that the beast wasn't so far behind them. This was the first time since they'd chanced upon what he'd at first mistaken as a dog

"DIB!"

The shotgun that rang out was every bit as breath-taking as the pounding force in his ribcage. The ground came rushing up to knock against his head, jarring his senses completely. The second his head cracked against the floor, the edges of his vision went white. His eyes flew open in shock in an effort to compensate. It didn't work. Not even slightly.

"_. . _. Don't _. . . move._"

He could feel her heat hovering over him, breath hot on his ear. It was too much contrast against the freezing weather. His ears were ringing, too loud, almost drowning out the heavy breaths of his sister. When had Gaz got that close to him?

Something shifted on his hip, easing its way out of his belt loop. There was something even louder than Gaz's breathing, which wasn't actually her breathing, because it was too low of a tone. It was too loud, to ragged, even after her run. The silence between each breath was even worse.

"_It's blind,_" she hissed in his ear, and Dib might've traded a sense away forever if he could muster the sight to see what his sister could. He bit bat a groan.

Listening to the silence was worse than breathing through the icicles that was the air. Knowing that his sister and a stranger with a shotgun were the only things standing between him and death-by-blind-werewolf was too much to think about in his state. He was paralyzed by the fear he couldn't comprehend, the feeling of helplessness just by the sound of the things breathing.

_. . . Hhhuuu . . . . .rrrrhhhhhh .. . . hhhuu . . . rrrhhhhhh . . .hhhuuu—snfff-sfff—_

It was smelling for them again.

Oh _fuck._

". . . _Gaz?_"

It wasn't that loud. It barely escaped his throat, choked back by sheer will-power and an obnoxious amount of fear.

The howl that followed nearly knocked the shit out of him.

"GAZ!"

He was shoved away, the gun in his pocket disappeared, and the percussion of shots ringing out was just too much. He blinked the spots from his vision as something wet and _raw_ splattered over his face, soaking his clothes. It was _freezing_. Geez, did winter have to be so potent in _everything_?

Dib's sinuses cleared, and suddenly he wanted to burn his nose and throw up. He was blind too, feeling the chilled muck drip from his hair and across his face. No way was he about to let that in his eyes. At least it wasn't in his mouth.

"Ew."

That was his sister. The slimy noises that followed signaled movement started moving away from him, and Dib began clawing at his face, finding his fingers only moistened by whatever he was now coated in from his hair down to his torso, and a few patches all along his jeans.

"Gaz?" He shouted, a thin line of his eyes just showing just between his eyelids. "Gaz! Where are you?"

"Be quiet!"

He let out a relieved breath. The stomping shuffle of the dirt was getting closer, and something rough and dry was on his face, scrubbing, unconcerned with being gentle. So _Gaz_ was okay then. But if his pulsing hip and the abrupt migraine centering around where he'd hit it earlier said anything about _his _condition, he probably could do with a trip to the hospital. An MRI might be in order. Maybe a CAT-scan._ Oooh,_ his_ head._

"S-S-Stop right there! I-I'm warning you kids!"

The scrubbing stopped. Dib realized at some point he'd been pulled into a sitting position, and considered maybe he _did_ need to go get his head checked. But his sister had succeeded in wiping away the muck on his face—which, looking at it, was some type of clear, bioluminescent jelly—and he could see her, considerably more put together than he was, with a brow quirked at the shaking man on the porch.

"A-Are you," he swallowed. Gaz's eye cracked open to peer at him, and compelled, he swallowed. "Are you a . . . aliens?"

Any fear Dib had leftover evaporated, bringing him crashing back to the reality of his situation. He was a fourteen year-old-boy covered in ice-plasma, chilled to the bone, really freaking exhausted, with a little sister who was going to kill him when he got home— if the man in front of them didn't do so first. And said man was accusing them of being aliens because they were coated in glowing jelly that was dripping onto the floor. It was making horrible wet noises. The point being, however, that Dib's patience with today had run out.

Without a word, Gaz raised her hand and fired twice.

Dib started as the man fell over, gun having spiraled away with the first shot and the man falling over onto his knees with the second. He huffed.

Apparently, so had Gaz's.

The man groaned and they moved forward together, his sister stealing the shotgun and tossing it to him.

"To answer your question," Gaz met his sister's gaze, her eyes cracked in vindictive humor. "Yes, we are aliens. The thing you just shot in the head was our pet. We're going to spare your life, but we're taking your car as compensation. Okay?" The man whimpered, but nodded. "Good. And don't call the police or tell anyone, or we'll come back for your whole farm and set it on fire."

She stalked off without another word. Dib chewed his lip, gagged on the awful bitter flavor of it, and added, "Uh . . . have a good night," before following after.

It wasn't until they were in the car, soaking the car-seat with werewolf-gook, the guns and bikes lying in the backseat, did Dib consider their predicament.

"Did we just hi-jack a farmer?" He said aloud.

Behind the wheel, eyes just barely skimming the dashboard, Gaz only grunted, which was alright. Dib didn't really need an answer anyways. He already knew it.

"Where are we going?" He asked, watching as she tossed the guns out the window into the swamp as they drove past. Huh. Damn. He'd really liked those.

"Home," she said.

"Oh," he replied. After a beat, he added, for reasons he forgot soon after, "I think I have a concussion."

Her eyes twitched in his direction beneath lids drooped so low it was a daily miracle she could see him. But as the thought of her sight stirred up generally unpleasant feelings he'd long ago found a repressed corner for, Dib forced his mind to blank. If it was just a little too easy to let go of his trail of thought, well, it was for the best, and he soon forgot to feel worried anyways.

Gaz grunted out a noise that seemed to be an assent to his observations, fiddled with a very out of place GPS clipped to the dashboard, and made a left.

When next Dib came too, a college student was playing the good semaritan and helping him out of the car. They'd attracted a small crowd. Gaz was speaking to a woman, her hand tucked into her brother's as he was set on the ground, rubbing her fist into her eyes. Vaguely Dib remembered showing her this technique many years ago during their brat-stage, where'd they'd acted out for attention in vain. It was a very easy way to make your eyes water. But why was Gaz trying to cry in front of a crowd?

Another gap and swirl of people patting and talking to him, and Dib was in the back of an ambulance with his sister. She had remained tethered to him the whole time. When Dib would look back on this later all he'd be able to distinguish was the warmth of her palm clutching his and the feeling of being isolated from everyone but her. There was a lot of profound thought circling around that idea—the feeling of his sister and he apart from everyone else, even when they were the center of attention—but he was too doped up to think clearly. Along those lines, when had he been drugged? And he had been. Drugged, that is. His arm still smarted from the shot.

He groaned, and Gaz looked at him as the doors shut.

"Can he sleep?" She asked, her lips out of sync with her words.

"No," someone else said, in a very tender tone that_ wreaked_ of 'speaking-to-a-sensitive-individual' training. "He's got a bump on his head. If he falls asleep, he might not wake—well, he'll be okay. We'll make sure of that."

His sister nodded before he was finished, or maybe after. But Dib knew she already knew all of this, so there was an ulterior motive for her asking. Dib couldn't think of it, but it had something to do with being manipulative. Something to do with gathering people on your side, with playing the naïve little kid—a skill she'd learned on her own. A way to ignite someone's instinct to protect the children, by playing the fool. On some level it bothered him that his sister wasn't above doing these kinds of things. On another, he was just . . . so _tired_.

"He'll be okay," another voice was saying, deeper, with an accent. A voice used to the graveyard shift. "The test we did gave us a picture. The picture says he's okay . . . Where's your father, young lady?"

"Work," Gaz said. "Can we go home now?"

"The patrol car will take you back," the man said, still tender, still soft to calm the nerves of the little girl while her big brother was wounded, "They'll be back in the morning to check up on you two."

"And the man who hurt us?" She asked, "What about him?"

Which confused Dib, because when had they been attacked by a _man_? Granted, under all that fur and sans a full moon, there was a man down there, but nothing was left to find. He'd seen the body, the leftovers. When the night was over it would shrink back down to a man missing a head instead of an obliterated werewolf. And people had the nerve to think the moon was only in effect with the living. Think of the ocean's tide, why don't you? Damn science hypocrites . . .

"They're looking," he said. "But don't worry, you're safe now. He can't hurt you anymore."

It was such a TV-thing to say, really . . .

END OF CH. 1


	2. CH 2

AND SO IT CONTINUES!

In this chapter, I was forced to make Zim do the whole "discover the Tallest lied" kind of thing. But I hope that I made it just a little more creative than the classic "throws shit, destroys his lab" kind of thing. Because as obscene as Zim can be, and as unintelligent as he may sometimes appear, I'd like to think our favorite green bean is just a little too smart and vain to allow himself to be ignorant to something that major. Or so I believe.

Hey, also, **I know it's not really going to seem ZAGR-ish** at the beginning, especially given how young Gaz is, but trust me, it'll get there. Pinky-swear, scouts honor, and all that jazz.

Enjoy, my loves!

* * *

**CH. 2**

_For those who wish to meddle in the affairs of the dead,_

_And make deals with those who wear transparent skin_

_Remember the dead are every bit as temperamental as the ghost_

_And no longer fear their sins_

* * *

**_Bouncy cotton-balls litter the sky_**

**_And I'll await the day__ such tenderness may exist between you and I_**

* * *

This was _exactly_ what he'd expected.

It was the complete opposite of what he'd been hoping for. After all, like most everything, this information had come at a price. It was not what he wanted, but there was no denying his need to hear this. He'd suspected, had gathered too much proof, made connections that severed others or destroyed the lines completely. It was a terribly sobering effect. But he couldn't deny the high that came with it, the clarity of thinking, of having something true and irrefutable. It was the first truth he'd believed in years.

And it was the last thing he'd ever dreamed could happen to him.

"Zim?" Skoodge repeated, with an urgency that said he'd been repeating his several times now. "_ZIM_?"

His back was ram-rod straight, his posture perfect. His face was less than blank, almost unreal. There was no fire burning, ready to scream of another's incompetence or his own success. He was the picture of composure. He looked as though he had been born in a soldier's stance. It was so Irken and so unlike Zim that it made his skin crawl, a funny, itchy feeling in his bones that he didn't even bother trying to scratch. This was a moment he'd pay to forget, that he'd be willing to scratch out and hand over to the Control Brains. But it was one of those binding situations that forced his hand, forced him to keep the uncomfortable exchange in his head so that he could remember, so he could help. He was already breaking the law for his friend. In a way, he was also doing it for himself, for the sake of the Empire. That's what he'd say, anyways, if he got caught. Zim was a burden to the Tallest. And someone should've done this—should have _helped_ him!—a long time ago.

He was just glad it was him that got to be there to break the news to his volatile friend and not someone else.

"Zim?" He repeated, once more. His face grew larger on the screen as he leaned towards his interactive communications device. "Buddy?"

" . . . _It this a joke?_"

Skoodge became animated. "No! That is to say, I'M not-."

"No_,_" he said. "_I_ am."

_I'm the joke,_ he realized._ My mission is the result of an elaborate prank. A **JOKE**._

". . . Yeah," Skoodge replied, quietly. "I guess you were."

Zim's antennae perked, a mistrustful glare in his eyes. "Were?"

"Well it's not like you're going to continue this charade." Seeing Zim's expression, he added, "Right?"

Zim's hands were flexing in the dark. Skoodge could hear the strain of Irken material, the sound of Irken claws digging into his own palms. It made him wince, and his back automatically hunched in on itself in discomfort.

"If you were me," he hissed, teeth snapping together at every pause. "What would _you_ do?"

Skoodge paused. He hadn't considered that.

"Nothing," Zim replied, hand brushing over his wrist in a fairly telling spot. "You're weak. You aren't strong enough to do it."

Skoodge's eyes narrowed. "I'm not the weak one. You are!"

"**_Lies_**!"

"Yeah, you're a joke, Zim. But so _what_? You're value isn't in servicing the Empire. You're a form of entertainment. You're a sitcom for the Tallest to watch and ignore as they please."

"SHUT UP!"

"They shot me out of a cannon and tried kill you! We are worth _nothing_ to them! We are _expendable_! We are_ replaceable_!"

"No, you are," Zim spat. "You're a poor excuse for a soldier. You're _short! _I'm a never-ending source of stupid entertainment! I'll be missed! You won't be!"

Skoodge's spooch was in knots. Zim was angry, he was upset, he understood that. But there was no need to throw out the 's'-word like that, not to him. He straightened his back and did his best to look impassive, unaffected. His jaw hurt from clenching his teeth and holding back awful words that an apology and a literal eternity of friendship couldn't repair. This wasn't about him and his hurt feelings or sensitive spots. This was about Zim. And his words would be for him only.

"What choice do you think you have?" Skoodge hissed. "There is _nothing_ but the Empire. We have our orders. Premature termination without reason is against policy. You _know_ that. They'll bring you back, and you'll be tortured and imprisoned for your crimes. You'll have no purpose. Is that what you want? To be useless?"

"I AM NOT USELESS!"

"Not yet. But you take this road and you will be!"

"How dare you talk to me like some- like- . . . ZIM IS NO _SMEET_!"

"Then stop acting like one!" He spat. He took a deep breath that didn't quite satisfy his buzzing nerves and let his face show his exhaustion. It was a weariness felt from his spooch, to the tips of his antennae all the way to his toe-claws. "Look— I get it Zim. I do. But this is our Empire. This is your JOB. We drew the sh— the little stick. This is it. And termination isn't the way to fix this."

Zim stood and said nothing for a very long moment. A moment in which he realized what it meant to feel your blood boil. It wasn't an expression for anger alone. It was the feeling of being too inflated, of being too _full._ His skin was on fire and his spooch was coiled in a fit of tension. He wanted to explode on someone. He wanted to scream until his throat was raw and shatter something with his bare hands, without consequence. There was just too much, and his blood—everything about him—was _boiling_.

It was too much emotion, too much feeling, and all of it pointed to a much bigger problem he couldn't acknowledge for fear of turning his raw fury inwards and tearing himself apart.

"Zim," Skoodge tried. "_Please_. Don't do this."

And nothing.

"PLEASE."

Zim looked him in the eyes, once. And if Skoodge knew that would be the last time he'd speak to him for years, he might've come up with something better or more memorable to say than "please." Maybe.

But it wasn't likely.

Zim raised one finger, and hit a button on his dashboard.

**TRANSMISSION TERMINATED. CALL BACK?**

_**(Y/N)**_

Skoodge took a deep breath that satisfied nothing before making a choice of his own.

**NO.**

* * *

This was it. This was really it; he had the evidence in his hard-drive, to be saved on his PAK before anyone noticed their presence. It wouldn't do to cause trouble like this, for himself or his only_ real_ ally left in the Empire.

It hadn't been a practical joke. The trial had been rigged from the beginning to end in his deactivation. He should've been dead. And if that wasn't enough, the only thing keeping him alive was the reason he wanted to kill himself.

It wasn't like he _wanted_ to die. To be perfectly honest Zim was a bit too vain to be seriously considering terminating himself. The moment had passed as soon as he'd lost his one-man audience. But it didn't make it any easier to deal with, knowing his only way out was actually not an option at all. It was awful and in a roundabout way made him want to kill himself all the more, seeing he wasn't able to. He was trapped. Not even Zim's other usual means of resolution wasn't available. It wasn't like he could exact revenge on the Tallest. Killing the first two was a freak accident that still haunted him all these years later. He couldn't imagine doing it on purpose.

_**SLUUUUUUUUUR-pop!**_

Zim visibly stiffened. On what was normally a very smooth standard-issue tunic, visible signs of tension appeared. Foreign anatomical structure created a picture of containment, of refusal to lose his composure. Zim was a soldier no matter what anyone said to him. Regardless of anything said behind his back, if he was going to do anything, he would at least reign indifference. No one deserved that kind of satisfaction. Not even the little imbecile disappearing in the lab hallway behind him deserved to see his master like that. No one got to witness the raw, oozing wound that was this defective little Irken. No one but a Zim could understand him like he did.

He was all alone.

He was honestly and truly alone.

Zim had never been alone before. He had never in his life been secluded. Never has he really experienced being _in-_cluded either, but that didn't matter. Zim was always surrounded, and whether it be by friend or foe was irrelevant. He was always the blinking light in the masses, shining on a distant goal more often missed and forgotten about then struck. Zim was now surrounded by enemies without a purpose or a master to give him one. His reaction had turned quickly into something exothermic. Everything else was warm and alive and _passionate_ while he just stood here in the hollow of his lab with nothing to do and no one to do it for.

In his most horrid fantasies, Zim had imagined what he'd do if he was ever exiled. Most of them involved rage and the destruction of the nearest property, most likely his own. There had been a lot of screaming and promises of vengeance. A couple of well-and-slightly-heroic speeches revolving around honor and the underestimated worth of himself as an individual. But now here he was, with each option so well thought out and available to him, and he wanted nothing to do with it. What was the _point_?

But Zim couldn't be sad. There didnt seem to be much room for anything. He still had a farce to keep up. The Tallest were curiously observant, especially when it came to emotional individuals like himself. Skoodge could not get into trouble—_he_ could not get into trouble. Zim would not rely on his fluke during his trial to keep him alive, and there were easier and messier ways to kill an Irken than to simply deactivate them. As those thoughts created a new kind of chill within him, Zim chose to move on.

But where to move?

A small familiar crash caught Zim's attention, followed shortly after by a reprimanding squeak. Zim's eyes glazed briefly over.

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_"What choice do you think you have?"_

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Zim looked to the flat screen. His antennae twitched at a new sound.

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_"We have a SPECIAL SIR unit for you, Zim."_

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His hand twitched, inching towards a button not on his wrist, but on his PAK.

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_"There is NOTHING but the Empire!"_

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He clenched his fist and lowered both hand and face to the floor.

He conceded. Skoodge was right: there _wasn't_ anything but the Empire. Regardless, personal vendettas floated around in his mind as the robot did _another_ thing he wasn't supposed to do.

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_There isn't anything but the empire._

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Not_ yet._

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" GIR! Come here!"

A painfully annoying slurp preceded his robot as the little thing trotted obediently into the room. "Yes, Master?"

"Fetch me my jacket," he ordered. "I'm going out."

"Oooh! Where we goin', Master?"

"Not you, Gir. Just me." He snatched his coat away, shoving his arms through the sleeves as he strode towards the elevator. "I have _arrangements_ to make."

* * *

It's been a week now, and Gaz was wondering if maybe suicide wasn't such a stupid idea after all.

"Sit still," she ordered, expression far too harsh for such gentle hands. Regardless of her carefulness, Dib flinched and wiggled on the covered toilet.

"It _hurts_," he whined. He only became more dejected as his younger sister rolled her eyes at his childish rebuttal.

"It's _sprained_," she emphasized, "Not _broken_. Quit being such a baby and just let me wrap the stupid thing!"

After pulling over, Dib only vaguely had a memory of the events that had followed. His sister was quick to assure him that she'd dealt with the whole affair and give him his diagnosis; a minor concussion and a sprained wrist from his fall. The cold had only further tightened the muscles. Police had been notified of the squatter in the empty farm lot with a shotgun, but neither had heard anything of it since, not that either of them were very concerned.

Primary focus had gone into nursing Dib back to health. The morning of, both had made audible noises of disgust at the swollen, black mess that was Dib's arm. But now Dib was the only one who sneered as Gaz had soon become desensitized to the light amount of gore and wrapped Dib's wrist with a single-minded care that was almost impressive. But while Gaz was being surprisingly helpful in regards to her brother's physical condition, her trademark impatience had yet to dip out.

With a precise flick of her wrist and only the gentlest of pressure, Gaz finally strapped the last bit of velcro down to secure Dib's removable soft-cast in place. The horrid beige piece braced his bruised tendons and ligaments with a single sheet of metal, a thick glove that exposed all his fingers and hooked through his thumb, and three velcro straps. It was oddly simple though extremely painful for the whiny patient on the receiving end of the amateur treatment.

"There," she said with a relieved sigh. "I'm all done, you whiner."

He lifted his tender wrist and flexed his fingers simply for the reassurance that he still could. And while stiff and a little swollen by proxy, they bent to his will. "Thanks, Gaz."

She merely grunted and swept out of the bathroom, presumably to make breakfast and settle down for Saturday cartoons. Dib sighed and used the new privacy to compose himself. As accustomed to unwelcome injury as he was, Dib had never been very good about dealing with the post-injury pains that came with being so reckless.

_At least you've still got an arm, _he reminded himself, tapping each thickened finger one-by-one down on his knee. Gaz said the doctor wanted him to exercise his fingers and redistribute the blood flow whenever he felt up to it, right after he iced it on and off for twenty minutes for one hour, every three hours. Hence the necessity for the fiery preteen's constant assistance in unlacing and re-lacing his brace.

With a sigh, Dib rose from the toilet and made his way downstairs to nab some of whatever breakfast his sister had made for them this morning. Normally he was the one who prepared meals (in order to avoid Bloaty's every other day) but Gaz had proved as adaptable as ever and merely ignored him when he tried to thank her for it.

The doorbell rang.

"Getting it!" His sister called up. By the time he reached the bottom of the stairs her petite little frame was swinging the door open, bat dragging along behind her. "What do you want-?"

She stopped, body sagging as her defensiveness drained from her figure.

"Oh," she grumbled, grip on the bat slacking. "Its you. What do _you_ want?"

Dib's brow rose as he meandered into the kitchen, his aching leg muscles having recovered several days prior.

"I've come to speak with the Dib-stink. Where is he?"

Dib's feet were back-tracking and heading in his sister's direction before he consciously told his body to do so.

"He's sick," she said. "Go away."

"I care not for his state of health, this is urgent! You _will_ move aside, dirt-child!"

"Gaz," Dib said, placing his good hand on her shoulder before things got a little too crazy. He glowered at his seething arch-nemesis, brow perking at his disheveled appearance. "What do _you_ want?" He sneered.

Zim's eyes narrowed at his less-than-hospitable reaction. His eyes raked over his pajama-clad form, "You do not appear ill, dirt child." Violet contacts zeroed in on the brace warily, "What is _that_?"

"None of your business," Dib spat back, as though insulted. "What are you doing here?"

Had Zim the privacy to do so, he would've gnawed on his lower lip at the pointed question. He actually had no real answer to that. Or, well, he _did_, but nothing he was going to tell Dib with his stupid big head and stupid, pointy hair.

_There are other things then the Empire, _he reminded himself. Zim, in fact, had a huge amount of things he felt obligated to complete before he made the decision on whether or not to terminate himself. A to-do list, in fact.

And murdering his arch-nemesis in a glorious, burning haze was at the top of it.

But to do that, he'd need his enemy in functioning order.

"Zim has noticed you haven't been snooping around my base lately," he said by way of answer, peering around Dib suspiciously. "I simply came to see whether or not I still had to kill you before overthrowing your planet." Itching to be free of the obnoxious earth-teen's piercing gaze, Zim carelessly swung his head around and tossed a three-fingered wave over his shoulder. "My curiosity has been satisfied; I see you are still as obnoxiously intact as ever."

"Hey!"

Zim heard the door hinge swing open behind him, briefly stunned (and yet not really all that surprised) to see Dib hurrying down the stairs after him, coat thrown halpharzadly over his shoulders in a small attempt to keep the winter morning air from robbing him off all his warmth.

"What are you planning, space-boy?" He shouted. Zim briefly cast a gaze around in a rare show of consideration for the unfortunately absent neighbors before digging deep enough to throw a nasty enough reply back.

Zim flashed a wicked grin in the boy's direction, "Nothing you'll be able to stop, Dib-stink! In the time you've been slacking off and rolling around with your _filthy_ germs, _I've_ been busy."

"You have _not_! I bet you haven't been doing anything!" Dib shouted back, holding the coat to his shoulders with his good hand as a breeze tried to tear it away. "I bet you've just been sitting around on your butt chatting it up with your leaders over junk food!"

The outraged indignation wasn't so hard to muster this time as a hard, bitter light came to Zim's eyes that Dib didn't notice. "You know nothing of what Zim does, stupid dirt-monkey! It is _you_ who sits on your butt and does nothing but consume your_ disgusting,_ toxic grease you call food!"

"Do not!"

"Do too!"

"Do not!"

"Do too!"

"Do-!"

"_DIB_."

Paling, the boy spun around to see his sister standing in the doorway, long grey coat properly fashioned over her arms and torso, with the appropriate pants and shoes for the chilly weather hiding beneath. Despite her attire, Zim watched her tiny frame shiver lightly in the cold as she stood out on the porch.

"Get. In. Side." She hissed, "_Now._"

Dib opened his mouth to protest.

"**_Now_**, Dib!" She barked before pointing an accusing, wool-covered finger at Zim. "And _you._"

Zim's antennae twitched beneath his hat and wig. Rare was the day that he even remembered the Dib-stink had a sister, let alone was directly acknowledged by her. "Eh?"

"Yes, _you_, stupid," she snarled, skipping the stair and leaping onto the walkway. On chunky gray, buckled boots, she stomped through the light sheen of ice so that she could point a single digit directly in his face, eyes so narrowed he could barely see the amber in them that matched her brother's vibrant shade. "This is my house, you got that? Not Dib's. I don't care where you two play, so long as it's not bothering _me_. So get off my sidewalk before I rip out your eyeballs and throw you in a lake!"

_So violent for something so tiny,_ he thought briefly before the rage tinted his vision red.

"How _dare_ you-!"

And then his cheek was stinging and his wrists jarred as they just caught his fall before he crashed face-first into the sidewalk. Blinking the spots from his double-vision, he quickly shoved his contacts back into place before turning his head slowly, eyes narrowed to feral slits. He watched as the female flexed a slightly aching hand, shaking out her fingers as she held her ground under his glare.

"Get off. My. Property," she growled. "I won't ask you again."

Before Zim could consciously register the decision to attack, he was upon her, sending the girl crashing into her own lawn and grappling her to the floor. To her credit she didn't scream, merely kicked him viciously in the gut. Together they rolled for mere seconds before Zim was choked by the collar of his own jacket and flung away onto the floor again. This time it _was_ his head that caught his fall. The seething alien's shriek of pain and fury was caught off as something hard and unforgiving pressed across his windpipe, effectively cutting off his air supply and sending him into a gagging, clawing fit. When his eyes refocused for the second time in so many seconds, Dib was hovering over him, his weird beige thing the source of his suffocation. His coat swung ominously over his shoulders, hooded gaze far more venomous than it had ever been before. Zim scrambled to find purchase on the brace to no avail; even his claws sinking into the strange thing had no effect on the teen successfully strangling him.

"If you _ever_ touch my sister again," he snarled in the alien's face. "You're gonna _wish_ I'd given you up to an autopsy table instead of face what I'll do to you."

"GET OFF OF ZIM!"

Zim choked on his own shriek, shaking his head violently. The friction of his clothes rubbing against the unrelenting ground burned his head, but still he thrashed until Dib let up, using Zim's own surging momentum to slam him back into the ground.

"**_Do you understand me?_**" He shouted, knee pressing into Zim's spooch when he refused to reply. "Look at me, alien scum!"

It was only when Zim began to see black that he finally locked eyes with the white-lipped boy. Theoretically he'd eventually catch hypothermia in this weather, but clearly Zim did not have that kind of time to waste. Through gritted teeth, Zim quite literally spat out the word, "_Fine_."

And Dib was off of him.

Zim rolled over and hacked several times, greedily sucking breath down into his organ as he shot a glare at where Dib was. Surprisingly, the boy was not gloating or towering pointedly over his weakened figure. Instead he had his hand on his sister's shoulder, steering her into the house as she attempted to scowl at Zim while simultaneously brush ice off of her jacket. Zim bared his teeth at her. She just managed to stick her tongue out at him before Dib slammed the door shut behind them and walled themselves away from the shivering, abused alien. Zim had come to remind himself that he had a duty to finish.

He clutched his aching jaw and spat a wad of blood on the floor from where his teeth had bit into his cheek.

And he was leaving with one more 'to-do' on his list. As soon as her brother was out of the way, the skull-oriented earth-girl would be the next to _go_.

* * *

"Get your stupid hands off me!" She snapped, jerking away from his grip, which by no means was an easy task. His fingers had been buried in her arm to prevent her from going after Zim again, a more than reasonable precaution. Had Dib not intervened, Gaz had no doubt the alien's head would be imbedded in her garage door by now. The thought soothed her frayed nerves only slightly as he brother rounded on her.

Dib was yelling before he'd even locked the door.

"What do you think you're_ doing?_"

Gaz snorted, "Keeping you from getting hypothermia?"

"Don't be cute, Gaz," he scolded. "You could've gotten hurt!"

She shrugged her coat off, snapping it in the air twice before condemning the remaining frost to melt away on her hands. She fisted the fabric, resisting the childish urge to simply toss it on the floor and stomp up the stairs. "Says the guy with the brace."

"_Hey._"

And suddenly, for the second time in so many minutes, Gaz abruptly found herself standing toe-to-toe with a hostile male individual. Only this time if she punched him, she'd feel bad.

Probably.

"This isn't about me being annoying or something, Gaz. This is _serious_. Like, '_I'm gonna call Dad'_ serious."

And boy was _that_ ever a way to get her attention. Unwilling, but far more cooperative than she had been moments ago, her preverbal hackles fell and she settled her feet flat on the ground, hardly aware she'd rolled onto the balls of her feet in the first place. Her actions lost her eye-level with her brother, but the crackling atmosphere melted into a lightly burning simmer of anger.

"I'm _listening_."

And that seemed to be the magic words to crack the ice.

The tense lines of Dib's face meted back into his rosy skin with a dejected sigh. His good hand came up to rub the baby hairs at the back of his neck, briefly remembering that he'd have to get a haircut soon. Dib watched as, utterly scolded, his sister crossed linked her arms over her chest and turned away, lower lip protruding into something suspiciously similar to that of a pout. Gaz, pouting. Were he feeling any less obligated to explain himself, Dib might've laughed. He turned away.

"Look," he said, hanging his coat up with considerable more care than it probably deserved, eyes tracing the abundant amount of wrinkles on the now-frigid material. "It's not that I don't appreciate that you were trying to protect me."

He ignored the quiet, dismissive snort as he turned back to where she stood rooted on the carpet, tracing the facets of ice crystals on the windows and pointedly not looking in any Dib-like areas. Gently, as if approaching a wounded animal, Dib began to pry her fingers from their manic grip on her coat.

"But," he continued, nudging away small, stubborn fingers as he tried to catch her ridiculously narrowed eyes. "I don't want you getting yourself really hurt trying to protect me."

Her grip on the coat slackened, and he was able to relieve her of her coat, which he promptly hung in the closet before addressing her with his full attention. Her pupils flickered briefly in his direction before her arms tightened around themselves.

"I'm not a vegetable," she muttered through her teeth. "It's not like I need you to hold my hand when I cross the street."

For the record, Dib actually _did_ make a point of doing _just that_. But for the sake of her pride, he decided not to point that out. There were, after all, more important things to discuss then semantics.

"No, you're not," he conceded, gently tapping the sides of her temple. "But I don't need you becoming one anytime soon, yeah?"

Gaz rolled her eyes, but her arms fell from their perch and she looked at him, lower lip sucking back in to its proper, non-pouting position. "You're such a drama queen."

"Maybe," he said. "But I'm your big brother too."

Another eye roll.

"I mean it, Gaz," he warned, stern once more. "Zim is off limits to you when it comes to protecting me. You can handle girls and advice and Dad and whatever. But fighting and paranormal and Zim gets left to me." He held his hand out in a gesture of peace, "Deal?"

She gave him a look that said he was an idiot. But it wasn't like he'd never seen that one before.

Her hand slapped his in a grip just a tad too firm for someone so petite.

"Whatever."

**END OF CH. 2**

* * *

(Sorry for the weird update dates.)

This will not, I repeat, NOT, be that 'Gaz is a rebel and dates Zim just to piss Dib off' story. Personally that's kind of a cop-out to me, but to each his own. As always, it depends on the writer. But as you can see, Dib and Gaz are reasonably close in this, in spite of them both being as in-character as I can manage. Also she's like, 12 right now. So no, dating isn't on the mind. But Zim, ohohoho.

You guys haven't seen _shit_ yet.


	3. CH 3

Sorry about the wait, guys. Life. You know how it is.

On another note, have you guys listened to Les Friction? Because they have amazing trailer-esque power music. I support.

Enjoy.

* * *

**CH.3**

_1. Function **with** a purpose, never **for **one_  
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_2. There is no such thing as right and wrong,_  
_only the benefit and the consequences_  
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_3. Sentiment is a chemical defect found_  
_in the losing side_

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_and **we**_

_are **not** here to be a buffer for someone's_  
_self-esteem issues  
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_-The Three Rules(1)_

* * *

Dib was not oblivious to the eyes cast in his direction as he leaned against the gates of his younger sister's school, waiting to walk her home. He was not unaware of their heads when he went to fetch groceries, or back-to-school shopping for Gaz. He was aware of the eyes of other fellow older siblings, teens who had once been his peers and classmates, boring holes into his back. This was a near-daily ritual that Dib had by now become accustomed to. Unfortunately, that did not mean that he was ignorant of their simultaneously condescending and pitying gazes.

Dib knew what they all thought of him: that he was a loser. A drop-out. Too introverted to function in normal society. A loner. Friendless. All sorts of half-truths that had once had a bite worse than that of the stinging frost turning his nose red. All sorts of meanness spewed to make themselves feel better about their own lives. By now, the boy heir knew that the insults of bullies and gawkers alike were not about him. There was nothing wrong with him. He was just Dib, and that was okay. And having satisfied himself with his simple conclusions, Dib no longer allowed their harsh looks to faze him. He was there to pick up Gaz, or run errands, and that was that.

But that wasn't the least of his worries.

_How am I supposed to protect you?_ he wondered, watching her slide around the kitchen in her socks as she prepared dinner. _I can't even protect myself._

Gaz, ignorant of her brother's introspection, pushed her body weight onto her elbows, climbing onto the counter with ease. Dib actually appeared to be ignoring her pointedly at this point. Figures: he normally bitched about her climbing onto things. She guessed it was some kind of sentimental payback for dealing with his shit for the past week or so. Well, she wasn't complaining. As far as Gaz was concerned, he was due for a lot more than a bit of silence. It had taken hours to get that werewolf blood out of her hair, and another to get it to stop smelling so bad. She wrinkled her nose, balancing her weight on the balls of her heals to swing the cupboard open without knocking herself down: the smell alone earned it a slot on her Top 5 most disgusting paranormal memories, and, on a personal level, the most frightening. Not that she'd ever admit to making such a list in the first place. The teeth alone, marred with scratches and blood stains had-.

Her toes curled in on themselves beneath her socks, and her fingers hesitated around the handle of the measuring cup.

_Bloaty's_, she reminded herself. _Bloaty's and videogames, Bloaty's and videogames, Bloaty's and videogames . . ._

The mantra and a few easy breaths helped her quell her shaking nerves as she got down from the counter, glass measuring cup firmly in hand. No point in making things so messy. She'd seen bigger and badder on TV, had fought them and ripped their guts up in her games. There were meaner things to be afraid of. There was a greater evil at least capable of existing.

But nothing that had breathed down her neck before, or been so close to chomping those teeth around her small, fragile, tender neck.

Gaz turned her back to her brother, waiting until she was sure he wasn't paying attention to inhale deeply and force the images away. When she reopened her eyes, it was to a bottle of oil and cold frying pan.

_No monsters, _she inwardly sneered, and replaced her mask of indifference.

Really, there was a lot to be afraid of. So much. _Too_ much, and that was the problem: people couldn't reasonably function in the face of fear. Had she hesitated, had she screamed instead of firing, she'd be dead. Fear didn't help anyone, and neither did dwelling on something that had already happened. The thing was dead, unlikely to ever come snuffling into her empty home just to rip her's or Dib's head off. That was stupid, and Gaz wasn't stupid. _Other_ people were stupid. Other people didn't even have Dib's level of self-control or intelligence. Other people didn't see things, didn't understand the kinds of things she did. Other people wasted so much time on forming bonds with other stupid people that they forget to form enough brain cells to function reasonably. So much thought wasted for the sake of useless trivia and emotions, and for what? Why make yourself weak like that? Why open that wound for other people to stick their fingers in? It was . . . it just didn't make sense!

Gaz could've been weak. She could've been completely dependent on her brother for both emotional support and information. She could've treated him like her father, like a crutch. She could've been the type of girl who needed a crutch, or an entire support system, just to get through the day. She could've resorted to medications or narcotics to ease her sensitivities to the outside world, expressed herself through poetry or the acoustic guitar. There were a lot of 'could have's, and even a few 'should have's, but none of them would have really changed anything. None of them would make her dad love her and Dib more than science. None of them would have made her happier. In fact, most of them made her miserable beyond repair. A quarter of them would have, theoretically, ended with her premature death below the age of 21, likely preceding Dib's own suicide (or at the very least, mad spiral into depression and substance abuse). There were so many paths, so many circumstances and factors that could've affected her life for the worse and yet here she was, almost thirteen, never having abused anything (not counting her brother) in her life and still very much alive. The house, nor the sky, had fallen down. Things were fine.

_Why would you function 'normally' when it only led to hurt?_ She reasoned, exasperated. The pan sizzled with cooking meat and the aroma of raw meat was soon being filtered out by the scent of cooking meat. It was much more pleasant, especially with the addition of a few unimpressive but ultimately beneficial spices. Everything looked fine, and Dib was still scratching out dioramas on scratch paper behind her for new security dolls he was planning on making for her while he lied around the house, doing nothing.

It didn't seem as healthy as everyone put it, leaving your brain and body out of control like that. Control was everything. If you weren't in charge of yourself, who was? A con-artist? Fate? What idiot would choose that?

She glanced briefly in her brother's direction as he huffed through his nose, erasing something with the personal vengeance of a man avenging on behalf of his mother's honor.

Dib wasn't as . . . well, there was Dib. Gaz wasn't sure what to think when she considered her relations to her brother and father. She was ridiculously, instinctively protective of them, that was for sure. One only had to remember her brief scuffle with Zim yesterday to see how strong that bond was. And while she never allowed herself to think of her distant father, she always made sure to plan carefully around the dates of his yearly bonding. They weren't _weaknesses_, exactly, but . . . well . . .

The meat sizzled.

Gaz shook her head once, tucked her hair behind her ear, and flipped the browning meat over in order to cook it evenly. The room continued to smell like seasoning and Dib still scratched away on his pencil behind her.

_Control is all I have, _a very small voice whispered in her ear.

If Gaz's eyes narrowed afterwards, it was of no consequence.

Dib wasn't expendable. That was probably the best way to put it. He was inelastic in regards to her lifestyle, just as her dad was. He was as integrated into her life, as routine as brushing her teeth. Life was duller without him and she refused to put a specific reason as to why that was. She didn't have time to waste on the fundamentals; like her father and her brother, she was an individual who ran her life based on what the facts told her. Though unlike her familial relations, she was not someone who had to delve any deeper than that. Gaz only had three rules, and she was adamant to follow all of them until she expired. The meat was cooked by now, and she stirred the tomato sauce in and began to drown the meat in it.

_I ought to write a book,_ she thought, frowning at the intolerably hot steam that near-burned her face. She manipulated the pan and noticed her brother's quiet humming behind her. She ignored him, knowing that big head of his had long since gone. Dib only ever let himself slip into noise-making when he was absolutely immersed in thought. His hand wasn't even moving anymore, but she knew eventually it would be moving in a furious effort to keep up with his immaculate plans.

_He really could have been an amazing scientist, _she thought, and then turned back to her pan. Hopefully he'd get so into this project that he'd be just a little bit more tolerable. Lucky too that both she and her brother were ambidextrous, lest he lose function in his dominant hand and be unable to work on anything. Her skin nearly crawled at the thought of dealing with a truly bored Dib. Both children by now had their hobbies that kept the attention of their ingenious brains, but deprivation of said hobbies was not a pretty sight to see. Not-stupid brains needed constant intellectual stimulation, no exceptions. And for once, Gaz was willing to place herself within restrictions. Luckily she had unlimited funds and video games were no scarcity. Time, and thus life, could be managed.

She settled the meat into a bun, and wordlessly, near-soundlessly, set her brother's dinner beside his elbow before leaving the room. The stove was off, and she'd eat in her room. Whenever Dib woke from his trance, he could clean up. She had school tomorrow morning and she'd be needing to get to bed soon.

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And if she made sure to leave Dib's pain pills next  
to a glass of water beside his dinner, well  
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_it was of no consequence._

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The scream was deliciously toe-curling.

"P-PLEASE!"

She frowned at a wall. Hmm. There was a significant lack of blood smeared across it. Mm, no matter, she would fix that soon enough. The thing about humans, no matter how disgusting they were, was that their innards were just so fascinating and truly beautiful, even if their shells were otherwise. So much pink and red and purple. If they didn't have so many organs, she might've strung one up as decoration. But as it were-.

The next scream was choked off by sobs, and the unmistakably strong scent of ammonia filled the air. A glance at the man's pressed pants ruined the facade that the smell could have not been urine, but instead a chemical hormone associated with fear. While technically a result of fear, it didn't make the damp puddle any less disgusting.

Slipping back to the present as the smell stung her antennae, she turned fully away from the wall and put on her best hospitable smile.

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_Nothing that had that much teeth involved could be anything less than lethal._

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"Mr. Wilkes, please," she cooed, carefully stepping around the damp puddle.

The man had effectively inched himself into a corner, and was scrambling for any sort of weapon. Her eyes glittered as his thick, sweaty fingers closed around a letter opener. A quick assessment beep confirmed the blade was dull, not anywhere _near_ sharp enough to be considered potentially harmful in any way, but the effort was stilly highly amusing.

Her eyes glittered with a dare as wide eyes flicked between his hand and the tiny, deadly little think in front of him.

"By all means," she invited, with far too much glee to mistake it for anything but a threat. "Go ahead."

Mr. Wilkes hesitated.

And then his hand dropped, curling in on himself, hiding the distinctive stain from her sight. It took all of her facial training, all seventeen years of it, to keep her from rolling her eyes. Humans were so stupid about their pride, even when faced with inevitable death. Especially the males. And if she recalled correctly, they were especially sensitive about there penises.

. . . Hmm. Not a bad idea.

Without any effort whatsoever, Tak extender her Legs and strung up Mr. Wilkes by the collar of his coat and watched with insatiable glee as he struggled wildly in the air, thick arms swinging and punching at nothing. So a bit of fight left in him, but not enough. No, never enough.

"I-I'LL GIVE YOU ANYTHING!"

Ah, _there _it was!

Tak promptly let him collapse back onto the floor, only allowing him a moment before each deadly legs had drilled him to the floor.

"Your people," she said conversationally over his screams of agony, "are very fixated on symbolic death, do you know that?"

She knelt to the floor, fascinated by the abrupt sheen of sweat that had appeared on his face and the strange way his peach-colored skin had changed from rosy to a more healthy looking green sheen. Huh. That was unexpected. She lightly touched his cheek, intrigued when she only felt dampness and not a sting of pain. Interesting. She flicked it off and decided to indulge her curiosity later, at a more appropriate time.

"Symbols, meanings . . . you're all so captivated by them. Religion, too. You all want to know about the sky and deities. It's all very interesting culturally, but ultimately a waste of your efforts. You cannot know until you die where that soul of yours is going. But fear not, Mr. Wilkes. You'll find out soon enough, yes?" She brushed some of the hair out of his face as his eyes bulged, mouth sputtering in pain too immense for even screams.

"Can you hear me, Mr. Wilkes?" She slapped his cheek lightly, as if waking him from a doze. "Come now, man. Don't be so rude. I am a guest, am I not?"

He gasped out something too breathy for even her sensitive antennae to understand.

"Mm?" She perked her lekku accordingly. "What was that?"

"_W . . . why . . .?_"

Oh. How boring.

She sighed, "Well, I wish I could say it wasn't personal, Mr. Wilkes, but I won't lie to you. I'd explain but you nor I have got the time." She gestured to the five PAKtcles, one drilled into his wrists and ankles while the other hovered patiently over his heart, caressing it gently enough to slice open his shirt and reveal a hairy, equally shiny chest. She ran her eyes briefly over his sternum before turning back to him with a smile.

"Your people will think I have crucified you," she said. "Symbols, if you remember my saying? Very useful in making personal murders look like the result of a deranged human. And, while not in the spirit of crucification, I believe I have gotten the basics down, save for my own personal touch." She nodded to the fifth tentacle that was still waiting for her unconscious orders. She frowned at the man who was still whining under her penetrating gaze, huffing in disappointment and digging the heel of her hand into her cheek for support.

Bored.

"You take an awfully long time to die," she grumbled.

Several awful, long moments later, the man in question finally stopped breathing, at which point the she-Irk let out a breath of relief and buried her fifth tentacle into his heart, ripping it out with a final and surprisingly pleasing _**squelch!**_ that ensured her victory. It was with no small amount of disgust, however, that she eyed the once-beating heart of the very dead individual creating pools of more than just urine at her feet. Dear Irk, what was that horrid _odor_?

An answering, accommodating beep rang out.

"Oh, right," she hummed. "They defecate post-mortum. How . . . gross."

She snapped her fingers, pointing to the mess around them.

"MiMi," she ordered, waving at their surroundings. "Fix this accordingly. I want those pentagrams everywhere. Maybe put in a few Latin incantations about death and virtue. Something about purifying sins. As much drama as you can possibly come up with. You have one hour."

This time silence answered her, and that was more than enough of an affirmation for Tak as she withdrew her tentacles with more squelching, tearing sounds. She flicked the meaty bits that had followed them out, incinerating any "leftover" bits with a shock. They burnt away easily. Humans were accommodatingly flammable.

Tak turned to find her pet already dipping the stuffed glove in the blood, painting a large circle around the man with meticulous care. It wouldn't do for it to be so messy- the living room was already in enough of a state to convince any policemen of a struggle. But the symbols, _thats_ where they had to be careful. They needed to be made with the care and effort of a true, excited believer. This could not be made a mess of, which was why MiMi had been assigned to it; Tak couldn't be bothered for such trivial tasks as making _neat drawings_. Ridiculous. She'd wait here for MiMi to finish up, and then they'd be on there way. The stench would probably filter through into the neighborhood by then, and the police could take it from there. No one would be tracing this one anywhere, but hopefully it would spice up_ somebodies_ day.

"What do you think, MiMi?" She asked, removing a digital pad and ticking off another name on a checklist. "Where to next?"

Still quiet. Tak's eyes abruptly rolled to the ceiling, and she saw red that was not the result of the massacre.

MiMi never talked anymore . . . MiMi_ couldn't_ talk anymore, all because of that stupid little imbecile and those stupid _brats_! How they ever hacked into her precious SIR unit was a mystery to her, but the damage had been done, and done well. Tak had been made to forfeit the Personality Brain completely in order to restore her robot to the majority of her former function. While most SIRs didn't have much of a personality to begin with, MiMi had been customized. Not extensively, but Tak had begun to consider her with a bit more appreciation than most Irkens would have for their SIR units. MiMi had been made by hand, out of the equipment she could scavenge in the dump. It wasn't unreasonable that she had a certain pride about her abilities; the special narrowing of her optical sensors at the sight of an enemy, the widened innocence so like her master's own in the face of surprise or delight. Tak had liked MiMi's subtle characteristics. But now she was so _dull_, barely beeped out code responses and rarely did even that. She was a functioning shell of her old self, and would continue to be unless, by some miracle, she could find equipment capable of mimicking a Personality Chip, the installation of which wouldn't do more damage than good. The chance of happening across such materials on Earth was unlikely at best, but it wasn't her priority anyways.

She had her List, after all.

"Oh, Zim," she sighed. "You've got not even the slightest clue on your side this time."

Unsurprisingly, MiMi did not react to the outburst as she would have once- with curiosity, the quirk of one sensor. She- _It_ simply continued painting pentagrams on the wall, careful to not disturb the bits that dripped wetly downwards. It was really quite creative of the SIR, to leave those bits. Very human imperfections. She approved completely, but didn't bother with praise. MiMi had proved time and time again unreceptive to even excessive amounts of praise, where once she would have preened under even the slightest hum of approval.

. . . By _Irk,_ did she miss that bit of regular interaction.

Tak let her head loll on the back of the man's surprisingly comfortable couch. It was especially forgiving, barely hindering her PAK. If she hunched, it was actually quite cozy. She could take a nap here. Maybe she'd take the couch. Tak toyed briefly with the idea before decided it wasn't worth it, closing her lids and listening to the the wet noises of her SIR dipping their glove in human liquid and using it as paint. She had nearly dozed when their was a brief, polite beep.

Tak sat up and gave the room a cursory glance, more for the sake of habit than any real mistrust of her SIR. Everything looked alright and in order, bits of broken shards swept away from the central pentagram on the floor, but nowhere else. The few painting hung had been thrown merrily down the hallway, replaced with hellish words Tak didn't bother taking a moment to translate.

"Good, MiMi," she said, eying her unit's hologram. "It looks . . . really good."

And, as usual, MiMi had no reaction but to stare dully back up at its master, simply existing from order to order.

_I did that, once,_ she realized with surprise, eyes widening under her robot's cold stare.

Abruptly, Tak, shook her head and stood, storming for the door.

"Hurry _up,_ MiMi!" She barked out impatiently, swinging the loft doors open. She took a deep, shuddering breath that was not simply for the sake of ridding herself of the smell of human that had permeated her senses so thoroughly.

And, muscles shuddering, ignoring the panic clawing at her throat as memories slid and slotted into inappropriate places, robot and master swung out into the night.

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. . . completely unaware of the eyes watching them do just that.

* * *

(1) If you recognize the quote, you are a beautiful, beautiful creature.

Hope you liked it. Again, sorry about the wait.


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